waggling me wig

It is right there on San Patricio's main street.

I must have passed beneath it several times before actually reading it -- even though it stretches across the full length of the street in front of the Kiosko.

I thought it was going to be an announcement concerning the usual suspects. A rodeo. A vagabond guitarist. A gathering of mariachi.

But it was none of those. If you applied your menu Spanish to the sign, you already know it is announcing a beauty contest for Mr. Gay Cihuatlán (the equivalent of our county seat) to be held on 22 June -- the winner to be declared by an electronic election. For those of you who still think of Mexico as a third-world country, I would be hard-pressed to think of anything more postmodern.

When I moved to this little fishing village by the sea, the last thing I thought I would encounter would be a gay beauty contest. Of course, my first mistake was thinking I had moved to a little fishing village.

It isn't. It is a tourist town that has learned that pesos come in all colors -- and that there are always new ways to expand the size of the revenue pot. I call it the Atlantic City syndrome.

I knew I was no longer in Kansas the night after my brother and I settled into my temporary digs in Villa Obregón. My landlady decided we needed to see one of Melaque's star attractions -- a transvestite show (a night at the opera). She thought it was one of the most marvelous entertainments she had ever seen. Neither Darrel nor I shared her enthusiasm after the performance.

Now, don't get me wrong. Even though I thought the show was an abomination, it was not for the same reason that my friend Cor posited theologically. It simply was not very well-produced.

What did surprise me is that it existed at all. Especially in a small town like Villa Obregón.

In The States, I was involved in several projects that centered around political outreach to Mexican families. I worked under the assumption that Mexican culture was socially conservative and based on traditional family values.

That was probably true for my line of work then and there. But the assumptions do not translate quite as well to our tourist village. It would be far more accurate to state the area in which I reside is a "live and let live" community. Governor Edwin Edwards could slip his round peg ("laissez le bon temps roulez") into one of our slots, and the fit would be perfect.

So, when I wait in line behind an attractive young Mexicana at Hawaii, I always have to look twice to see if a bait and switch is under way.

I cannot tell you what the beauty contest next week will consist of. I talked with three young Mexicans who have told me three absolutely contradictory stories -- it will be men in ball gowns, it will be men in dinner jackets, it will be men in dinner jackets and then in ball gowns. That last version would cut my dinner party guest list in half. Apparently, there was a lesbian version a couple months ago, and the auditorium was packed. Mexicans love beauty contests.

Perhaps my English DNA makes me a bit sanguine about the prospect of men dressing in ball gowns. I doubt there is an English gentleman alive who does not dream of pretending he is Theresa May feeling the brush of a Dior against his dry knobby knees. Especially when you consider the wigs and robes by the judiciary.

Curiosity leads me to a lot of venues in Mexico. But I doubt I will be settling into my auditorium seat in Cihuatlán on the evening of 22 June.

Who knows, though? I could be wrong. How will I ever be able to tell you what happened, if I am not there?